Soundless Requiem
by The Bellman
Summary: [The Manchurian Candidate] Raymond's death, third-person view.


_A/N – Don't own these characters or the book. Thank you for not suing me._

"Soundless Requiem"

by The Bellman

December 2004

So Raymond Shaw lived the ultimate nightmare. His death march was not performed to the comforting, natural sound of a heartbeat, or a funeral dirge, or some grand requiem mass befitting his soldier's death, his martyr's death. No, it was to the tune of "Hail to the Chief", masking the fatalism of each inch closer to that little room above the Garden. Already he had put mourning for the losses too great to mention behind him, and had focused on one thing: the objective. His mission had one goal, and he'd be damned if he was going to fail. Evil, nocturnal, tempting opportunity blazed before him like a false sun, leading his world-weary soul to its last actions.

The crucifying sobs that had plagued him earlier had been filling a void in him. That void was pure silence; the loss of the only music he had every really known—with every fibre of his being, truly _known_—had been taken. Though he had been the instrument of the finale, the conductor was on death row for her sins, her Communist, lying, vile sins that she had tried to hide. Her executioner was her own instrument, turned on her. Sitting pretty, seemingly in like Flynn, with her pearls and white-blonde coif that always burned into Raymond's eyes like those damned camera flashes, she was just unknowingly waiting to die. Raymond would not pass quietly into death. In replacement of the longevity he had wanted with Jocie, that would now be unbearable in discordant quiet, he would leave with a bang, tempestuous. Mrs Iselin's judgement day had come.

Each footfall on the catwalk echoed harshly in the decrepit, Spanish Inquisition-style dungeon of his mind, and each became louder, magnifying themselves so grotesquely that he felt as though he might be sick. At times the sound—and no other, for all other noises were blocked from his ears—became so crystalline and finite that he could sense each infinitesimal vibration of the sound of the simple tap of his shoes. His stomach shook and he was instantly reminded of the summer of all-encompassing fear and first love, when he could not keep food down for the consuming fright that haunted his dreams when slept (if he slept!), and horrified him when he was awake. The idea—the very _knowledge_, really—that Mother might take away what was, quite likely, the only happiness he had known at that point just embedded itself into his ponderings and stayed, like a leech. And when she did, he could not stop her.

And then, when he had just achieved happiness again, in this most unfair way ever dreamt of, his fear had been made into aching reality. His true family, Tom Jordan and Jocie, had been TAKEN.

But Raymond had purpose. He would not be beaten by nausea, or fear, or any such thing. He would, instead, beat them with willpower, determination, and the strange strength that only a man's dying wish can possess. He marched on to the promise of the end of a war that could only be stopped by more bloodshed. The perpetuating cycle of this cold war was to continue, and these two bullets—one for Johnny, one for Ellie, two for the couple!—would only continue, he knew, but his personal suffering and the cruelty dealt to Jocie and Senator Jordan would be paid in full by the pair that was sitting so daintily down on the stage.

So with utmost care, he did the deed. No-one could have known—Mother least of all!—but there they were, still, with their life and blood slowly draining from their cooling bodies.

But that was not the final step. Only one footfall from the end, the only thing left to do _was_ end it all. When Ben appeared at the door, Raymond spoke to him, only wishing to do away with an intruder.

And within one moment, with the Medal of Honour tied round his neck (blue and earned for valour and unusual bravery against the enemy; for so valiantly saving the country), and an angel just on the horizon, the penultimate action was taken.

Raymond Shaw's walk down death row ended with a bang.

And in the confusion, an angel departed the Garden, and joined another in the hazy metropolitan skies. The city was too busy to notice the peace that the soul had founded in its release; they were concerned with the string of assassinations, such horrible deaths, not the tragic story of one lonely man.

For a split second, that Medal had been his emblem, the symbol of his undaunted heroism. It had been possessed by the purity of his courage and necessity. But when Ben Marco looked at it an instant later, it was plain metal and ribbon once again. Its spirit had left with another, quick on the heels of the kindest, bravest, warmest, most wonderful human being that had departed the mortal world and had left Ben Marco to clean up the mess like the soldier of light he was.

The soundless requiem began to play.


End file.
